


a deep, white cut

by TechnicalTragedy



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Blood, Concussions, Gunshot Wounds, M/M, Major Character Injury, Near Death Experiences, Serious Injuries, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 13:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6081834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TechnicalTragedy/pseuds/TechnicalTragedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wanderer's first mistake was underestimating the raiders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a deep, white cut

**Author's Note:**

> spoilers for late-ish (?) plot, namely the institute
> 
> also i wrote this in like two hours after driving for around eight hours so if you see any mistakes in grammar or the wording is sloppy that's probably why. i'll edit it a bit more when i'm not so tired but for now, enjoy.

The raiders were much smarter than they had any right to be, much smarter to a man than any other group of raiders combined. Their brains weren't addled with Jet, the world moving at ten percent speed around them, or with Psycho, slowly eating them up from the inside out. They were smart, with powerful guns and effective armor, and as he and Deacon had slowly managed to pick off the first group they'd come across, the thought had crossed Wanderer's mind that, just maybe, they were in over their heads.

 

Of course, Wanderer didn't understand just how much of a threat they posed until they'd captured him.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

The world is hazy, a blur of formless entities and occasional way, way too bright lights. Wanderer is fairly certain that he's moving, but his own legs aren't transporting him, no way in hell. His head hurts like a motherfucker, probably a concussion, but he hasn't had one since he was a teenager playing football and can't quite recall the symptoms at the moment.

 

Stupidly, he wonders where Deacon is, and why he isn't stopping this from happening. Deacon is his number one, his right hand man, his go-to guy. Deacon should be here, but it's so hard to remember where _here_ even is. Had Wanderer even brought Deacon along with him?

 

Wanderer hits the ground suddenly, everything going topsy-turvy and painful as he lands with a thud he feels all the way down to his bones. Ouch. He blinks dazedly, but the world is moving too fast for him to make any sense of it. He closes his eyes against it all, hoping the darkness behind his eyelids will make it all stop.

 

Just as suddenly as he was thrown down, he's hauled back onto his knees. Wanderer groans, or thinks he does, but it's all still a little blurred. His eyes open again and thinks he's in sunlight, in some shiny place where everything will turn out okay, but he's not far enough gone that he can't see the shadows. A warehouse, maybe, with a fire burning bright and hot and far too much for Wanderer. At least the ringing in his ears is finally fading.

 

A hand lands on the back of Wanderer's skull and pushes his head down until his chin touches his sternum. Cold metal touches his neck, and that point of contact sends Wanderer's system into shock, his body freezing up as he sluggishly processes the implication behind a weapon at his most vulnerable point. It's almost like it brings clarity to him, and his brain almost aches as it rushes through information at an impossible speed.

 

He may die. Wanderer hasn't found Shaun, hasn't stopped the Institute, hasn't saved the synths or seen Deacon without his sunglasses on or- fuck, he hasn't even told Deacon that he loves him because it's never the right time, he's never sure if Deacon will reciprocate, it's always this or that but it all builds up to Wanderer being a chickenshit. Wanderer feels the ice set in, feels it creep over his skin from the gun against his neck like the Cryolator is being used against him.

 

The hammer of the revolver – Wanderer knows it's a revolver because of that telltale click – is pulled back and the world slows to a crawl, all the jackrabbit-fast jumping everything was doing being dunked in molasses and rolled uphill.

 

Raiders don't show mercy, especially not to Vault Dwellers still in their blues. Wanderer thinks of the pristine jumpsuit he'd left back in its bag in the Vault, thinking, _If I survive this, I'll need a clean one._

 

Wanderer doesn't get last rites, not here, not now.

 

_I'm sorry, Nora... I'm so sorry I couldn't save our boy. I'm sorry, Deacon. You can't trust everyone._

 

There's a click, and the universe implodes in the form of a firecracker going off in the back of his head.

 

Wanderer is explosive; he's going supernova and nothing can hold him back. A superheated blade rips through his throat and bursts into empty space. He doesn't feel himself hit the ground. He doesn't feel much of anything, except the burning in his neck. The world is slower, now, even slower than it was before. The ringing in his ears is gone, there is no click in his mind; it is blessedly quiet.

 

Was he shot? He can't be sure. Wanderer thinks the sight he sees is wrong. The world isn't diagonal, is it? The floor slants out from under him, an endless concrete plane stretching off into the distance.

 

He doesn't feel much, just the pounding of the ground, which must be footsteps. He knows he must've been hit, there's no missing from point-blank range. This must be death, then. He'd expected something more, or maybe something less?

 

There's darkness creeping over the concrete, and at first Wanderer thinks it's his vision going, but he belatedly realizes that it's blood. His blood, spilling out into the afterlife. Wanderer could swear he sees the stars in its rapidly-expanding depths.

 

It hits Wanderer then, really hits him, that he's dying here, alone in a warehouse, killed by some fucking raider that got the jump on him. He almost feels foolish, but mostly he feels cold, and he hates that feeling, has hated the cold ever since he stepped out of the cryosleep pod and pounded on his wife's broken one until he was bruised and bloody and broken.

 

There's noise, maybe, in the far distance, but it feels so inconsequential to Wanderer. The warm hands on him, though, that's definitely important. Warmth on his neck, slippery but there.

 

“-ay with me, boss,” says a familiar voice, but Wanderer can fly now, he doesn't have to be anywhere anymore. The bright spot of pain Wanderer feels in his upper arm is a shock, but he can't muster up the energy to see what it was that hurt him. What more can they do to him? He's already dead.

 

A blob swims into his vision, and eventually it coalesces into a face that makes Wanderer's heart constrict. Deacon.

 

“Deeks,” Wanderer says, but Deacon's face just falls, and then his hand is moving, pressing against Wanderer;s throat.

 

“Don't try to talk, boss, please. Save your energy. I-I'll get help, I'll go find some- Fuck! The Stimpak managed to stop the bleeding a bit but it's not enough. Shit, I hope the artery wasn't severed. I need the flare gun, where the hell do you keep your flare gun, Wanderer...” Deacon goes on babbling, his warm hands leaving Wanderer to do something else.

 

Wanderer is pleased that Deacon showed up. His greatest fear has always been dying alone, but now he has Deacon with him, and Deacon makes everything so much better. Wanderer closes his eyes, content, and when he opens them again Deacon is farther away, running towards him, shadows following his steps.

 

The shadows are loud and brusque when they get to Wanderer, moving so fast and rolling him, making him try to protest but feeling it gurgle in his throat instead. Huh, he's choking on his own blood.

 

There's more pain, more long stretches of empty memory, more warm hands on him, and more Deacon holding him, whispering and begging and pleading words that Wanderer can't begin to decipher. After a while, after the infinite, exquisite painlessness, Wanderer _burns_ , and all Deacon can do is hold on with his blistering grip.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Hours, days, maybe months later, Wanderer's eyes open. The ceiling above him is stark white, the cleanest thing he's seen since he'd left 2077 behind. He doesn't recognize the mechanical hum all around him, nor does he recognize anything else around him, either. He tries to move, but excruciating pain sets his right arm aflame and Wanderer ceases all movements, barely managing to contain his scream. Almost immediately after, sweet relief floods down over his nerves, and he sighs as he settles back comfortably on the bed he woke up in.

 

The door swishes open a moment later, and a tall, gray-haired man strides through, eyeing Wanderer where he lays. He picks up a clipboard hanging from the end of the bed, and Wanderer realizes he must be in some sort of hospital, but what hospital would be so well maintained two hundred and ten years after the nuclear apocalypse?

 

“You're quite lucky to be alive, I hope you know,” the man says, startling Wanderer. “If that bullet had been even an inch more to the left you would be dead. As it stands, the bullet went in to the right of your spinal cord and came out just below your Adam's apple. A piece of it is still in there, mind you, but we got the majority of what was left out. It was too difficult to remove the sliver without harming you further.”

 

Wanderer blinks at the man, unsure of what the hell is happening. He got shot, obviously, but where is he? Did he go back in time? “Um, pardon me,” Wanderer says, his voice sounding weird to his own ears, “but would you mind telling me where I am, and maybe even who you are?”

 

The man smiles in what is probably meant to be a comforting way, but his eyes are dead like a shark's, and Wanderer doesn't trust him one bit. “Of course. This is the Institute, you see. As for who I am, well, that's a little more complicated. Around here I am known as Father,” the man pauses, and Wanderer is still puzzling over how he got into the Institute when the curveball of the century is thrown right at him. “You may know me better as your son, Shaun.

 

Wanderer's breath catches, and everything slows like he's taken a hit of Jet, or maybe he's dying again. His son? This old man is his Shaun? Shaun, in the Institute, being called Father? No. No, there's no way. “Bullshit,” Wanderer says, voice hoarse and ragged and he thinks maybe it'll never sound the same again.

 

The old man – Father? Shaun? – frowns minutely. “I'm pleased to see you too, father.”  
  


 

\- - -

 

 

Eventually, after much wheedling and currying favor on Wanderer's part, the Institute, well, Shaun, gives him free rein of the Commonwealth. Of course, Shaun expects him to check up with them, to not strain his arm or throat too badly, to eventually meet up with a synth called X6-88, to do this and that and blah, blah blah. Wanderer stopped paying attention at around the ninth stipulation.

 

The Relay is a trip, for sure, Wanderer just suddenly getting zapped to any place in the Commonwealth he wants to go. He makes sure to Relay in Lexington because, even though it makes for a longer walk, he doesn't want the Institute to track his Relay back to Sanctuary. They have other means to track him, he's sure, but he won't give it to them for free.

 

As he treks back to Sanctuary, Wanderer thinks of how, if he's grateful to the Institute for one thing, it's that they'd given him all his stuff back, and had even sent him with extra rations. They couldn't be all bad if they gave him all the good stuff, right?

 

By the time Wanderer gets to Sanctuary, the sun is setting, half-heartedly throwing light into the skeletal town like it couldn't give less of a shit. Wanderer can respect that, but he's also glad he didn't have to turn his Pip-Boy light on, because that thing is a tad bit finicky and with his arm in the condition it's in, he probably wouldn't even be able to work it. The first one to notice his arrival is, predictably, Dogmeat.

 

The German shepherd runs faster than Wanderer has ever seen, legs a blur as he yips excitedly, alerting everyone to the fact that there is a visitor. Dogmeat jumps up on Wanderer, licking at whatever he can reach of him, and Wanderer makes it easier by lowering himself onto a knee and giving the pup the best pets he can with only one working arm.

 

As expected, the whole settlement turns up to see what's got Dogmeat so ecstatic, and they in turn get these elated expressions on their faces, like Wanderer showing back up is the best news they've ever had. There are many hugs, many warnings of, “ _careful with the arm_ ,” many questions, many answers, but Wanderer is glad to be home, even with all the hubbub.

 

The only person missing from it all is Deacon, and Wanderer tries to act like he's not unhappy about this.

 

When his friends finally let him go, Wanderer going on and on about how tired he is, he slogs straight to his house and to his room, stopping short when he finally lays his eyes on the person he's most wanted to see. Deacon.

 

The man is asleep in Wanderer's skinny twin bed, the one he'd built when he'd found his king in disrepair. His sunglasses sit on the bedside table, and he looks so much younger in sleep, so much more open that it makes Wanderer hurt.

 

Careful not to make too much noise, Wanderer sets his things down and creeps closer to the bed, fitting himself in behind Deacon on the bed and praying he doesn't fall off and fuck up his arm even more. It's a testament to how dead-tired Deacon must've been when he went to sleep that he doesn't wake up, and Wanderer hopes it isn't his fault, but knows it probably is. Wanderer puts his face in the back of Deacon's neck, breathing in the familiar scent of dust and pomade and something so inherently _Deacon_ that it's like the smell of home, always calling to Wanderer no matter how far he strays.

 

Deacon's breathing changes, and that's the only indication Wanderer gets that he's awake before he's rolling over in Wanderer's arms, hand going instinctively to the gun under the pillow before he meets Wanderer's eyes and goes still, hardly even breathing.

 

“I'm home,” Wanderer grates out, still hating the rough quality to his voice that used to be so smooth.

 

Bright eyes flick over Wanderer's face, taking in details so fast, processing so quickly. Deacon puts a hand to Wanderer's cheek, his gaze flickers down to the scar on Wanderer's throat, and when he looks back up there may be tears in his eyes.

 

Wanderer smiles, and, as if afraid it'll shatter the illusion, Deacon smiles back, all hesitancy and watered-down hope.

 

“Home missed you,” Deacon says, going for lighthearted while his hand slips from Wanderer's cheek to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart, making sure he's really there.

 

Wanderer kisses Deacon's nose, his forehead, his eyelids, everywhere he can reach, and just before their lips connect he meets Deacon's stare, unafraid and finally, finally ready to begin.

 

“Home is wherever you are, Deeks.”

 

Deacon foregoes making fun of Wanderer in favor of kissing the words from his mouth.

 

**Author's Note:**

> love those dorky gays


End file.
